


It's the thought that counts

by aurorae



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Interspecies, M/M, Mutual Pining, One shot full of goofy good vibes, Peacock spider, Spider!Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 04:25:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7153433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurorae/pseuds/aurorae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter paused. He wanted to blink. He would blink if he could. He would blink all eight of his eyes if he had eyelids just to provide some subtle indication of what he’s feeling.</p><p>He doesn’t know what he’s feeling.</p><p>Instead, Peter knitted his brows, the vertical furrows deeply pronounced by his confusion. Or bewilderment – it was <i>some</i> sort of feeling he could vaguely piece together, so at least he’s getting somewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's the thought that counts

**Author's Note:**

> Let us give thanks w/ some soulful chanting up in here for [polarspaz's](http://polarspaz.tumblr.com) spider!peter au also known as the au that makes me weak bc I am 100 peRCEnt HErE fOR IN tE R S P E C IE S
> 
> on a side note im also trying a change up in narrative than what i normally do

It was embarrassing, horrifying—and frankly, a little itchy—for Peter to acknowledge that he had croaked halfway through his explanation. He was ready, should’ve been ready, _thought_ he was ready when he had spared himself a final glance at his bathroom’s mirror and made some preparations prior to Wade’s arrival. Peter tried everything to calm himself, from breathing techniques he had googled to playing tracks on some website’s playlist that promised to ‘Soothe the Soul in ten minutes or less for $2.99 or your money back.’

Two dollars and ninety-nine cents poorer, and here he was, with his hands shaking and his mouth gaping under his mask, searching for his voice. Across from him, Wade, who situated himself on the beaten couch, went ramrod straight.

Clearing the lump stuck in his throat, Peter hooked his fingers under the hem of his mask. He counted to three in his head before lifting the mask to reveal his tawny colored fur, twitching mandibles, and a set of eight saddened eyes. He tried to continue where he had left off before assessing Wade’s reaction, but as his chest tightened and his poor eyesight strained to distinguish Wade’s frame from the scarce décor behind him, he didn’t get very far. The fur under his eyes was dry and brittle, there was an unfamiliar taste in his mouth, and his chin felt clammy.

And apparently he can secrete fluids from the fangs of his mandibles and it tasted so weird and _he has no idea what this is but oh god there’s more dripping out._

Wade launched himself off the couch and joined Peter’s side. He lowered his hand and set his finger below a fang to collect some of the falling, colorless drops, which slithered over his glove. With his free hand, Wade tugged his mask over his nose and sniffed his coated finger. Then, without warning, he popped his finger into his mouth.

“Huh,” Wade said, “spider venom.”

“Venom?” Peter parroted with a grimace. “I have venom?” He could practically hear himself edging closer to hysterics. He was shaking, so he realized he must be closer to hysterics after all.

Wade gathered some paper towels, and much to Peter’s dismay, the sheets dampened within minutes. Wade fetched some kitchen rags, which succumbed to the same fate as the paper towels. The more on edge he felt, they concluded, the more venom was produced, which, of course, only had Peter freak out even more because _he can’t calm down._

Wade said something in a rush, something like “Hang on tight,” and dashed out of Peter’s apartment without closing the door behind him and Peter’s not sure what to make of that. There was some doors slamming in the hallway, a couple of screams, some dogs barking, and more than a few choice curses, but Wade returned to his door with a couple of tears on his suit and bite marks on his calves.

He had the decency to close the door this time. He jumped over the couch, then kneeled to Peter’s level. He fitted two cotton-like plugs on the tips of Peter’s fangs and warned him not to tug on the strings.

Ignoring Wade’s suggestion, Peter removed a cotton plug to inspect it. “Is this,” his voice switched octaves, “did you just bring me a _tampon_?”

“Two, actually.” Wade told him as casually as someone making a remark about the weather. “They’ve got maximum absorbency! The box said so,” he added, as if it justified the result of his unusual thought process.

It worked. Peter regained some semblance of his composure, but because he couldn’t regulate the flow of venom that would seep sporadically throughout the afternoon, he and Wade ventured into a convenience store, fighting over tampon boxes. Peter cared for efficiency, while Wade insisted on the brands that came with colorful packaging.

That was months ago, probably half a year give or take, and much to Peter’s relief, he could control his venom at will. Although he couldn’t completely and utterly accept his mutation with open arms, he managed to cope well enough that he could look at his reflection for longer than a mere, few seconds. Peter assumed his appearance would gradually coax Wade out of his habitual flirting and exaggerated romantic gestures.

It didn’t.

Wade still treated him like his ass was the nation’s second national treasure (Peter wasn’t sure why he felt offended that he was ranked second. Wade whipped out his phone and pulled up an image of Steve’s spandex-clad butt. “Look at these buns,” Wade said with a touch of pride. He sniffed, then planted his hand on his chest and whispered, “God bless America.”) and ruffled his fur in the same manner he had toyed with Peter’s hair when he was, well, fleshy and relatively human.

Wade often hoarded pictures of Peter on his phone. Images upon images of Peter in his pajamas or his costume, which was layered with obnoxious filters and hearts or kissy stickers. There were less of his human pictures every time he checked and more of his mutation. Regardless of his hybridity, the amount of filters and stickers over the images remained a constant. Peter didn’t need much of a hint beyond that to know Wade was still attracted to him, spider and all—

There was this one time he did get a hold of Wade’s phone to delete a few embarrassing photos and change his assigned ringtone to something a bit more mundane. Peter was getting tired of going patrolling and calling Wade, where, in the distance, the ringtone would echo in the quieter streets of New York and he would hear it: ‘What is love?’, which was followed by Wade’s awful, but enthusiastic, singing, _“Baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, no more.”_

Wade found out almost immediately, lamented over the lost images, and reassigned Peter’s ringtone. Peter got a good laugh out of it when he heard him approach, the ringtone blaring the sound of a rooster’s crow, and Wade yelled, “What the fu-“ but stopped short when Peter jokingly admonished his language—

and it moved Peter and made him flush that Wade never changed his mannerisms. Eventually, he became receptive, they were both being receptive to one another, and he knew they were beating around the bush but Peter’s not too keen on spluttering a confession anytime soon that would only end up with him getting frazzled and losing control of his venom and becoming an embarrassing, furry mess and - and this is why he didn't entertain the idea. It led to bad thoughts and second-hand embarrassment. It’s hard, but Peter wouldn’t say that aloud because Wade would just make a joke about being hard.

He elected to Not Think About It and flung himself to the rooftop. Wade was waiting for him, but his back was turned, and a small table was propped beside him. Peter didn’t have to say anything as Wade turned, hands hidden behind his back, and cheerfully greeted him, “Spidey!”

Peter didn’t hesitate. “What are you doing?”

He scoffed. “Hey to you too.”

“Deadpool.”

“Don’t worry your cute, fuzzy little head about it! It’s legal!” He wilted under Peter’s silence. “Sorta. Listen, I smuggled this baby here for good reasons!”

Peter used every ounce of willpower not to pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh. “There’s never a good reason to smuggle anything.”

“Unless it’s a present!”

_“Deadpool.”_

“Relax, baby boy, your nerdy heart is gonna love this.”

Whatever he was hiding behind his back he had set out on the fold-out table: it was a plastic container with tiny air holes punctured on all sides.

Peter paused. He wanted to blink. He would blink if he could. He would blink all eight of his eyes if he had eyelids just to provide some subtle indication of what he’s feeling.

He doesn’t know what he’s feeling.

Instead, Peter knitted his brows, the vertical furrows deeply pronounced by his confusion. Or bewilderment – it was _some_ sort of feeling he could vaguely piece together, so at least he’s getting somewhere.

“A spider. You got me a spider.” What a charmer.

“Not just any spider!” He tipped the plastic container to one side to release the hatch and free the tiny critter from its containment. It crawled out, quickly and nimbly, and approached the edge of the table where Peter stood. “Take off your mask and be amazed, Petey!”

There was no use arguing, so he tugged his mask off and stared at the tiny spider. Wade fiddled with his phone and played an upbeat, catchy tune.

The spider did nothing. Out of sympathy, Peter offered him some appreciation for his creativity in gift-giving. “It’s, uh, colorful.”

The spider twitched. Its abdominal flap sprang forward, which presented its vibrant red and blue patterns. It waved its iridescent fan from side to side, then outspread two of its legs out, its limbs sharply jerking like an air-traffic controller, and finally gave a little hop to the other end of the table. Peter muffled his laughter by bunching his mandibles over his mouth.

The spider continued its little jig, and Peter and Wade’s eyes met in tandem. “You got me a dancing spider,” Peter amended.

“Peacock spider,” he corrected. “So? Whaddya say, Petey?”

“Um. It was cute? Thanks?”

He deflated. “No, not that. Well, yeah, I know it was cute – just, is it a yes or a no or…?” He gesticulated wildly as he spoke, which usually means, from what Peter has understood of the man’s behavior, that he’s nervous.

“What am I saying ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to?”

Wade buried his face in his hands.

Peter snatched Wade’s phone, paused the song, and googled spider dances. The results came back with a handful of weird artwork of himself that he ignored and instead he skimmed through some articles of courtship dances performed by male peacock spiders. Hazarding a guess, Peter asked, “Are you indirectly asking me out? Through a _spider_?”

Wade perked up and nodded his head.

Peter chuckled and set the phone on the table. “Yeah, okay.” Before Wade could eagerly react, he scooped the spider onto his hand and brought it close to his face. “Thanks for introducing us!”

The spider jumped on his shoulder. Wade cursed in frustration and glared at the arachnid. It was an intense one-off that Wade was going to lose.

A warm, wholehearted smile teased Peter’s mouth. He took Wade’s wrist, gave the leather glove a gentle tug, and told him, “It’s a yes, Wade.”

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 


End file.
